The Stench is Getting to Me
by disgruntledwannabe
Summary: Okay, this looks bad, feels worse, smells worse than it feels, and to top it all off it's really embarrassing.


Okay, so I'm pretty sure this exists in some weird fusion of the comics and the MCU stuff. I haven't thought too much about that. I make a passing reference to my other fic "The Guy Next-Door" so you may want to check on that before reading this or a paragraph isn't going to make much sense.

* * *

The embarrassing thing was that it wasn't even a supervillain or something that put him here. Hell, it hadn't even been the _mob_ that put him here. It had been a couple of teenagers.

 _Teenagers_.

And they were probably barely even teenagers, not that he could really say because it wasn't like he'd gotten a good look at them, but wouldn't it be the icing on top of the fucking cake if a bunch of thirteen year olds had gotten the drop on him. Yes it would, which is why he believes it's the case.

Any other day this would never have happened, because he wore his hearing aids when he went outside any other time. But it had happened on a Wednesday. It just had to happen on a Wednesday. The one day of the week where, because of some deep, well-hidden masochism, the entire team got together and had a meeting. A team meeting. Granted they're not as bad as the one's Fury used to force them into, but they're still pretty bad. Cap's a great guy and all but his insistence on covering every single little piece of information, most of which turns out to be completely irrelevant, makes Clint want to bash his head against the nearest brick wall. That at least would be less painful than listening to Cap drone on about the person who keeps leaving the apple cores in the elevator, and just as entertaining as watching Tony make increasingly intricate and aerodynamically sound paper airplanes to shoot at Steve's head. Point being, he leaves his hearing aids out on Wednesday's, because he doesn't want to listen to that shit. Sure it makes Tasha give him a dangerous brand of side-eye, but he considers being able to zone out at the things well worth the price.

It is not worth it today. Not now that he has managed to get himself thrown into a dumpster.

Not now that he has managed to get himself mugged by a group of teenagers, and _then_ thrown into a dumpster.

Not now that he has managed to get a broken arm and leg, mugged by a group of teenagers, _and then thrown into a dumpster_.

He doesn't know how long he's been in here either. His watch is on the broken arm, and the stupid kids made off with his fucking cellphone because this is his shitty goddamn life. It's been a while though, because the sun went away and has stayed away so he figures it's nighttime. Distantly, he realizes that if he called for help he might have gotten out of this predicament sooner, but the fact of the matter is that he's too embarrassed to even think about it. So, he lies there in pain, and hopes the garbage men in Hell's Kitchen are in the habit of checking their dumpsters for wounded Avengers.

And that's when another body slams on top of him.

If he hadn't had enough trouble breathing with the impressive stench of last week's moldy leftovers as a constant companion then breathing with a 180 pound deadweight directly on top of him is a near impossibility. The dude is bleeding heavily from about three different places if the wetness that Clint feels seeping into his clothes is any indication. Mostly, though he's focused on not screaming in agony because anyone who is willing to throw a half dead guy into a dumpster is not someone whose attention Clint is keen on getting, but he's just jostled his broken bones and dear _fuck_ does that hurt.

At least they left the lid open, so now there is some orange streetlight in the place and he can see.

Can see that the guy on top of him is wearing a mask…a black mask…in Hell's Kitchen.

Well damn.

This feels kinda like the time he realized that Captain America had lived in the shitty apartment across from him for like six months, except this time he doesn't miss the obvious. He doesn't know exactly what the papers are calling this guy now – well, he does but if they honestly decide to keep the "Devil of Hell's Kitchen" moniker he'll be supremely disappointed in New York's newspapers – but he knows that he's the city's newest vigilante. Which means that he more than likely got thrown in here as a result of something much more epic than being mugged by a bunch of kids, the bastard.

Oh how he misses being able to breathe.

It is a few more minutes before the guy actually returns to consciousness and when he does his first order of business is to roll off of Clint's immobile body. The guy knocks Clint's broken arm and this time Clint releases a whimper.

It's a very dignified whimper.

He deserves to let it loose.

His dumpster buddy turns toward him carefully, making sure not to aggravate the series of knife wounds that haven't stopped bleeding. He sits up slowly but successfully and Clint expects a series of SHIELD level interrogation questions for how suspicious the guy clearly is.

Instead he gets: "What the hell are you doing in my dumpster?"

"Excuse me?" He's still trying to work through the haze the pain in his arm is putting him through, but he manages to work out that that question isn't quite right.

"What the hell are you doing in my dumpster?" the guy repeats.

"Your dumpster?"

"My neighborhood, my dumpster."

"I don't see your name on it."

"I've certainly been tossed into enough of these things. I've probably almost bled out in here at least once."

And if nearly bleeding out in a place isn't a good enough reason to claim it as one's own than Clint isn't sure of a better strategy. "Okay. Fine. Your dumpster."

The guy nods. "Now that we're in agreement, what are you doing here?"

Clint shrugs with his good shoulder as best he can horizontally. "Tried to break up a fight with the wrong people," he lies.

"You're lying." The other man smiles.

It's the kind of smile that Clint has seen on plenty of villains, but it's replaced by a wince as the man moves incorrectly in a way that villains never do. He doesn't know how the newest vigilante knows that he is lying, especially since there don't seem to be any eyeholes in his mask, but he accepts the fact that the guy may be a mutant lie detector and moves of with his life.

Gathering the last remaining dredges of his dignity he admits, "Okay…I may have gotten mugged."

Behind the mask the guy's eyebrows lift up as if he can tell there's more to the story. The eyebrows compel him to continue.

Clint groans, half in pain, half in embarrassment. "C'mon man," he pleads, and it's not a very superhero thing to do but at this point he's beyond caring as long as he doesn't have to mention the teenagers part of the story. "Can't you see how pathetic I am right now? Cut me some slack."

"You look pathetic?" Of course he'd focus on that part. Clint supposes he's being spared his pride, but not much of it.

"I'm covered in Grandma's Meatloaf Surprise, and I'm pretty sure it's got mold on it, and I can't move without fucking up my broken limbs even more. Yeah, I'd say I look pathetic."

"I wouldn't know."

The thing is Clint has kept on talking, "I wouldn't say helpless though because I'm sure I can still kick someone's ass in a pinch – I'm not an Avenger for fucking nothing" and it actually takes him a second to realize that the masked man has said something at all.

"I'm sorry could you repeat that?"

Oh apparently he can raise one eyebrow, not just both, good to know. "I said 'I wouldn't know'."

"Wouldn't know what?"

"How pathetic you _look_."

His dumpster buddy places a weird subtle emphasis on the word "look" that Clint only gets because he leans his head forward a little bit. Obviously looking is unconsciously significant to the guy. Clint squints at the mask, trying to see if he can find the other's eyes in the partial darkness only to be reminded that there aren't any eyeholes in the thing and what kind of idiot doesn't have any eyeholes in his costume how the hell does he se— _oh_.

Oh.

Okay.

Neat.

"You're blind."

"Yup."

"Huh."

The guy make a weird pursed lip expression and Clint guesses he made some affirming noise. He doesn't really have anything to add, so he lets the two of them simmer in awkward silence for a little while. When the guy seems to realize that Clint isn't going to say anything else, he shifts stiffly before pulling out a disposable cellphone from his pants pocket.

"Hell yes man! You got someone who can get us outta here?" Clint is very happy with this development.

The man dials and puts the phone up to his ear. "I've got someone who can get me out of here." He corrects, and then turns his head away when the person he's calling picks up. Based on his profile Clint can't pick up on any part of the conversation with any degree of certainty, but when he slumps back against the dumpster wall Clint assumes that he's got a rescue team on the way.

"Mind if I borrow that?"

There's a brief hesitation before he hands the phone over. It's a simple flip phone and Clint doesn't waste any time snooping around the guys contact list because he really just wants out of here so he dials Kate's number and hopes to hell she picks up.

After a significant pause that allows Kate time to pick up or time enough for her phone to go to voicemail Clint just starts talking. "Hey, Katie. If you actually picked up I can't hear you, don't have my hearing aids in so I'm just going to make this quick. I may have gotten into a little bit of trouble: two broken limbs and a hell of a headache. I'm trapped in a dumpster in an alley on 49th between 11th and 10th. I'll explain later just get me out of here." And he hangs up. "I hope someone fed my dog," he says absently as he passes back the phone.

"You're deaf," is what he gets as a reply.

"What?" Let it be known that Clint Barton has _the best_ sense of humor.

"Oh, very funny."

Suddenly, the entire dumpster rattles startling Clint into a puddle of suspicious liquid and his companion into a plastic bag full of diapers right next to him. Kate's face looms into view above them, blocking out the merger light from the streetlamp, and she's obviously yelling at him but because her face is in shadow he can only make out every other word.

"I— p— —night— —ied about—ASSHO–E! —kee—in— —area."

"Sorry, Katie."

"—on't—call— —ie."

She either doesn't notice his friend or decides to ignore him for the moment and focuses on crawling into the dumpster with a wrinkled nose. Without any preamble his protégé lifts him up by his shirtfront, and somehow manages to manhandle him out of the dumpster while putting as little pressure on his broken limbs as possible. She then turns back to the dumpster. He can see her eyebrow tick up in curiosity. She turns to Clint and waits for an explanation.

"Uh, Kate meet the 'Devil of Hell's Kitchen'," and he really would have done the air quotes if his other arm was up for it, "Devil meet other Hawkeye."

The two share their own exchange, that Clint would be very interested in hearing under different circumstances. Now that he's out of the dumpster it's getting harder to ignore the ache of his leg and upper arm and he really just wants to get these things fixed so he can get on with his life.

When he looks over next, Kate is dumping the Devil onto a wooden crate conveniently placed against the side of the dumpster. He looks just as relieved to be out of the thing as Clint feels and thanks Kate for her help. He waves a bit to get Clint's attention, and somehow knows that he has it. "So you really are an Avenger?"

"Yeah," Clint says. "It's a pretty sweet gig."

He thinks that makes him laugh but it could just as easily be a scoff. "Well, if you ever want a tour of the rooftops around here you know where to find me."

Clint snorts. "Yeah, I'll check the dumpsters next time I'm in the neighborhood."

The guy smiles and this time it isn't at all like the ones he's seen on the face of villains.

Kate says something and the other man responds, "I'll be find; don't worry" and after a brief moment where Kate somehow manages to enter a staring contest with a blind guy, she's nodding her approval and tugging Clint out of the alley.

"No hospitals," he tries to say.

Kate glares at him and gives her best approximations of the signs for "idiot", "yes", and "hospital" with one hand as she shoves his sorry ass into the backseat of her car.

"I love you, Hawkeye," he tries.

She looks him dead in the eye. "You're lucky you have me, Barton."

He nods emphatically. "I'm the luckiest mentor in the world. I'm forever in your debt for getting me out of that dumpster."

"Nice try, you're still going to the hospital."

Clint's whimper is the most dignified thing in the whole damn universe.

* * *

What Kate is saying to Clint when he can't read her lips very well is this:  
"I've been up all night worried about you, asshole! You're lucky I was in the area." and "Don't call me Katie."


End file.
